He’ll never do anything to upset me, and if he somehow should, he immediately apologizes and practically throws himself at my feet, begging for forgiveness. My unhappiness, even for a moment, makes him unhappy. Is that love? I don’t exactly feel that way toward him. If he looks unhappy, I don’t work hard at getting him to be happy again, but I do feel bad about it. Is that enough for me to say I’m in love with him?
I hate the thought of having children. Actually, what I really hate is the thought of getting pregnant. Maybe I could hire a surrogate, but if I were going to have a child, I could see myself having it with Richard. There is no doubt that he would be a devoted father and would do everything he could to make a child less of a burden for me. That must be part of being in love.
I keep thinking about my father’s reaction if I should accept the ring. Lately, I’ve been thinking he would be relieved to know someone else would have to take care of me, but I’d like to think he would be saddened by it, too, by feeling like he’s losing his little girl. Do you think he would? I know my mother would probably have a big celebration and invite her garden party friends. She’d get drunk on champagne toasting Richard and saying, “I feel sorry for you.”
Anyway, how many girls accept an engagement ring from a man their parents have yet to meet? That would surely ruffle their feathers. Do you think that’s what’s making me hesitate? There you go, smiling, maybe even laughing at the idea that I’d even consider that or care.
Would someone in love care?
I suppose it’s sad that the only one I can talk to about any of this is you. I haven’t a friend here I would trust with anything more than my mascara.
I’m tired of talking about myself. Let’s talk about you. What do you think of me?
Just kidding.
Tell me the latest about Ryder Garfield. I’m sure he knows your name by now.
Kiera
P.S.: I just decided to tell Richard I’d wear the ring for a while to see if it fits not only my finger but my heart as well. Doesn’t that sound romantic? Or does it sound idiotic? Sometimes I can’t tell the difference.
I sat thinking about what she had written. She was certainly right to say that I would not be any sort of expert on love. However, what she was describing made it sound as if Richard was surely in love with her. I didn’t want to come right out and say it, but I couldn’t imagine her being in love with anyone. She was just too selfish ever to be in love.
That was the answer, but I couldn’t write it that way. Instead, I wrote back that you know you’re in love when you care about someone more than you care about yourself. I was afraid that I would be ending their romance. She might agree and then tell him she wasn’t in love with him. She should add that she would never be because she wouldn’t ever care more about someone else than she did about herself, but she wouldn’t.
Reading her e-mail and thinking about a way to respond got me to think more about Ryder Garfield. If I truly believed he was a very unhappy person, suffering inside himself, and that was why he was so unpleasant, and I really wanted to care, I shouldn’t be thinking of how upset he made me. Did I want to care? Why should I care about someone I had barely spoken to? Kiera would call me a bleeding heart and say something like, “You need a transfusion of selfishness.”
My telephone rang and shook me out of these deep thoughts. It was Jessica. Like her mother
, she just didn’t give up when it came to gossipy drivel.
“It gets worse,” she said as soon as I said hello.
“What does?”
“The story about Summer Garfield. She wasn’t just caught making love in school. She got pregnant and had an abortion.”
“Claire told you all this? How would she know this? C’mon, Jessica.”
“Reliable sources. That’s all they ever say in her father’s business, but they’re right more than they’re wrong.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said.
“It explains why Ryder’s so serious and angry-looking all the time, don’t you think? It must be like a house of horrors in that home.”
“I don’t know. I know one thing, though. If you spread this around—”
“I’m not! You’re the only one I’ve told, but these things have a way of getting out eventually.”
“So do rats.”
“If he wasn’t very nice to you, why do you care so much?” Jessica asked, obviously growing annoyed.
“Maybe because I remember a time when I wished people cared about me,” I said.
“Oh,” was all she could respond, but it did take her down a peg or two.
Although they knew of my previous life on the streets as a homeless person, most of the girls at the school avoided mentioning it or asking me about it. It was all too ugly and unpleasant for their delicate ears. I could tell them about rats, about the rats that came around my mother and me when we slept on the beach, and waking up feeling one run over my feet. I could tell them about having to bathe in a public toilet and having to hold my breath to avoid inhaling too much of the stench. I could tell them about the tar I would pick off my toes at the end of the day or the days I was so hungry I thought I would eat insects.